The Problem of Mary
by Jael73
Summary: I have yet to read anything with Mary and Sherlock Holmes. Seems like an obvious pairing to me...This is how I see it. First chapter is rated T for some themes, but later chapters will be M. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

"**Watson! How good of you to visit!" Holmes exclaimed as he opened the door to the foyer to the sight of Mrs. Hudson helping Dr. Watson hang his coat and hat. It had been six months since Watson had married Mary Morston and moved out. Holmes would never admit it, of course, but he had been feeling a touch depressed since Watson's leaving. Holmes' smile faded only a little as Watson turned to him and gave him a small, tired smile of his own. **

"**Mrs. Hudson, some tea, please," Holmes requested ubruptly. Mrs. Hudson, as perceptive as ever, quietly went for the tea set, realizing this was not going to be the happy reunion she had hoped for. **

"**Watson, pray sit down, old friend. You look like you've had a hard day of it."**

"Thank you, my friend. I do have something on my mind…but, perhaps, after tea?" He glanced over his shoulder at the door, which Holmes instantly took as Watson's wish for privacy. He seemed genuinely glad to see Holmes, but preoccupied…or nervous. Holmes reigned in his curiosity for the sake of his friend.

"Of course! It is a good thing that I have had no case in the last several days to force me to miss you. I take it from your infrequent visits that married life agrees with you?"

Watson sat bolt upright, staring at Holmes. His gaze was intense, questioning.

"Old man, what is it?" Watson opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at the sound of a knock on the door.

Mrs. Hudson came in with the tea tray and sat it down on the table. She looked at Holmes looking at the doctor, and left the room, shaking her head. This was a bad business, indeed.

Watson's momentary willingness to talk had passed, and he began fiddling with the end of his sleeve, and his nervousness was growing more palatable every second. Holmes busied himself with the tea tray.

"I'd prefer brandy, Holmes." Watson said quietly. Holmes curbed a sigh of relief as he went for the brandy dispenser. A strong drink would loosen Watson's tongue far better than Darlingjing.

Holmes handed a glass to his friend. Watson looked down into its clear amber depths. He stood up, brandy in hand, and walked to the window, with his back to Holmes, and then gulped down the entire glass in one swallow.

All of Holmes' deductive skills seemed to be useless to ease his friend's pain. Watson was trying desperately to muster enough gumption to tell him something, something about Mary. He waited in silence.

His hand braced against the window's edge as if to help him stand, Watson's voice was so low that Holmes had to strain to hear. "I married Mary because I loved her. I love her still. She is an amazing woman, Holmes." He paused. "I have often wished that you two might be better friends." He shook his head at this, with a look of irony on his face, and gave a small chuckle, which confused Holmes even more.

"I would have though nothing less of her, my dear Watson, for she must mean much to you, to take you away from our friendship here."

Watson shut his eyes tight, as if Holmes' words had hurt him somehow. "She is. And I thought her love would be enough." He took a deep breath, and bowed his head. "But it's not."

"Watson….I don't understand…" Holmes started. He could only think of the most vile answer: had Mary committed adultery?

Watson sat down on the settee, and pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes. "I cannot love her…as a man… should love a woman."

"What?" Holmes sputtered, now utterly confused and perplexed. That was _not_ what he had expected to hear, if he was expecting anything at all.

Watson looked up at him, eyes brimming with tears. "Haven't you ever guessed, Holmes? We've lived together for years, and you're telling me you've never "deduced"…" 

And then something clicked. The pieces fell into place. Holmes walked to the settee, and sat down slowly. He stared at his friend, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Perhaps I have not been properly observant. As you must admit, I am not the best at analyzing the emotions of others."

Watson sniffed, and fumbled with his handkerchief. "I thought you knew," he nearly whispered. "I thought you knew, and just ignored it. So too did I, because I valued our friendship so much."

"Oh, my dear Watson, I would never be so cruel. You must have felt I was taunting you all the times I berated you for being so appealing to women."

"Sometimes. Sometimes I thought you were jealous, and felt for me what I felt for you. But I could never make myself ask openly."

Watson looked down at the floor. "And then Mary came into our lives. And I thought 'Here is someone I can love as much as I love Sherlock Holmes.' And everything was wonderful, for the first few weeks. But then she started to notice."

"Notice?" Holmes said, in full deduction mode.

"I can't…er…get aroused." Watson averted his face. "I'm sorry, I don't know how else to put it."

Holmes actually felt a warmth come to his checks. He did not think of himself particularly prudish, but this was not the normal conversation of gentlemen. But his Watson was despondent. He put his hand on Watson's shoulder, urging him to continue. Watson looked over at him, grief-stricken.

"We make love, but she can tell. She actually thought it was something she was doing wrong!"

"But Watson," Holmes was nervous to the point of fidgeting – this line of conversation was making him extremely uncomfortable. "Whatever do you think I can do about this?"

Watson stared, looking into Holmes' eyes.

Holmes stood up hastily, reading the desperate message in his friend's eyes. He nearly stumbled backwards towards the fireplace. He turned his back to Watson sharply, and rested his arm on the mantle. He looked back over to Watson, staring into Watson's eyes, his very soul.

"You can't…seriously…be asking…me, to…. make love to your wife, are you, Watson?" Holmes finally blurted out.

Watson hung his head, miserable, defeated. There was no going back. "More to the point…I want to make love…to you."

Holmes actually stopped breathing. He had never known or guessed this, though he was starting to think that he should have. The man before him was the best friend he had ever had. How long had he been hiding this terrible secret?

"I'm sorry." Watson's back was still facing Holmes. "I didn't mean for you find out this way. Truly, I never meant for you to find out at all." He turned in his desperation to be understood, his voice crackling with emotion. "I thought marrying Mary was the solution. I love her, Holmes! But I can't –"

"What does Mary have to say about all of this?" Holmes interrupted, confused and bewildered by the turn of the conversation.

"She suggested it. Though at first, she only suggested that I confess to you. She thinks that this is all somehow her fault, no matter how I explain!" Watson gestured wildly at the absurdity of the idea.

"She amazes me, Holmes. She is a lady to her very marrow, but when I told her – this – she responded with the wisdom of Solomon himself. 'Go to him' she said. 'I will not have our marriage end because we are making each other miserable.' But I convinced her to allow me to suggest…what do the French call it? A _ménage de trios_? She has the right to be happy, too, Holmes!"

"Of course she does! But I hardly think I am the one to accomplish that!" Holmes stared at Watson incredulously.

"It is you or no one. She made that very clear. 'I am not a wanton,' she said. 'If your Holmes is not interested, then I will learn to be content.'" Watson looked at Holmes, his eyes red, but clear. "I do not know if you can reciprocate my feelings for you. But I am asking, as my best friend, for you to help me save my marriage."

Holmes turned quickly towards the fireplace, his arm on the mantle. Watson had seen the gesture many times before, as Holmes stared into the fire. He would have smiled at the old familiarity of it all, if the situation had not been so serious. This time, the gesture came with a vulnerability, a fragility that Watson had knew was there, but rarely saw. It cut him to the core that this was of his doing.

"I will need time to think about it, Watson." Holmes finally said, his voice struggling for control. "I will write with my reply."

"That is enough." Watson said, picking up his coat. "Thank you, old friend." He left without another word.

Holmes smoked not at all throughout the night, and all of the next day. He mostly sat facing the fire, responding to Mrs. Hudson's hints of supper with mollysyllables. It wasn't a "3 pipe problem", or even a 10 pipe problem. This was a problem of the heart, of which Holmes had no experience solving.

He thought of his love for Watson (and yes, he knew it was love he felt for the man) and wondered if his love of their friendship was enough to reciprocate Watson's physical love for him. He had no particular dislike of homosexuals or their activities, but simply had never thought of such activities involving himself.

And then there was Mary. Though most did not know, Holmes was actually a great believer in marriage. It was this belief in the sanctity of marriage, rather than actual disinterest in the fairer sex, which had kept him celibate all these years. From the little conversation he had had with the woman, and from Watson's account, Holmes knew Mary felt the same. She was willing to consider actions in order to save her marriage, but only up to a point.

Holmes had a suspicion that she was actually much more miserable than she had let on to her husband. A wife that cannot make her husband happy in their marital bed would consider herself a failure, no matter how one explained that it was no fault of her own. And though Holmes was sure Watson was a conscientious husband, it was hardly worth wondering about that Mary would see that his heart was not in it.

Not particularly satisfying, Holmes concluded. Watson cared for her deeply. Holmes cared for Watson. Could he transfer that emotion to his wife?

And then, Holmes thought miserably, there was _that_ old problem. _Yes,_ Holmes answered viciously to himself, _there was always THAT._

Watson held Holmes' letter unopened in his hand. He took Mary's hand in his other. "We'll read it together," he said simply. She nodded, tears brightening her eyes, as they went to their bedroom and shut the door.

"I have several conditions," the letter began without any greeting. Watson understood instantly. This could be a rather damning piece of evidence against them all in the wrong hands. Best not to give identifying information. "If this experiment is unsuccessful, then so be it, but at no time are you to ask of or be jealous of it, and the same for her. This is non-negotiable. You will never use this against one another. I will not be a home-wrecker.

I will ask the housekeeper to take a holiday. You should also, and circulate that she is staying with me for a week or so as not to be lonely. As I am quite the confirmed bachelor, it should not be so scandalous if we are seen together in public.

If you are uncomfortable with these conditions, simply write back 'no'. If you both agree (and I insist that it be without reservations), send a note with 'yes'".

They looked at each other. Watson knew he would never use this against his beloved Mary. But did she truly understand and accept his own desires?

Mary seemed to be reading his mind as she squeezed his hand. Her eyes shone with something Watson had not seen since their wedding day: hope.

A trunk arrived. Holmes directed the deliverymen to deposit it in Watson's old room. With Holmes' help in arrangements, Mrs. Hudson had left for a two month holiday in Greece with her sister. Holmes had refused to think about anything beyond the practical arrangements after receiving the note with "yes" written in two people's handwriting. He had simply told Watson in person the date of Mrs. Hudson's departure, leaving Watson to arrange the rest.

Holmes was nearly beside himself with nervousness that he refused to acknowledge he felt when Watson opened the door and led Mary inside the flat. Though startled to see them both, he recognized the necessity: if Watson had told his social circle that Mary was to stay with his best friend while he was gone, it would not do for Mary to arrive clandestinely, as if there were something shady about it.

No, people must see Watson accompany his wife, and then leave, with everything above-board. Though Holmes had wondered if he shouldn't have had Mrs. Hudson stay, out of propriety. But he simply cringed at the idea of Mrs. Hudson being in the same house as they….well, he wasn't even sure _what_ they were going to do.

Holmes actually took a breath of courage to bolster his nerves as Mary and John entered the living room. He had even managed to boil tea in the kitchen and had a set waiting for them. This was going to be uncomfortable for everyone. They might as well have a good cup of tea.

Watson took Mary's wrap and pulled off his coat. He had yet to decide if he was nervous about the whole situation. No, he was simply resigned. He loved Mary, he knew. And he loved Sherlock Holmes. This was the only way.

Mary looked about the room. She hadn't been back since before her marriage, after the case of the Sign of Four had been completed, when Holmes had asked them both to tea. She was not at all resigned to what the next few days might hold, but she bravely held her emotions back. She loved John. The situation saddened her deep in her heart. But as far as she had been able to reason, this was the only way.

She then did something so surprising, both Holmes and Watson stared at her, stunned.

Mary reached up to her head and slowly, deliberately, took off her hat. She then looked at them both calmly, almost daring them to deny the meaning of her gesture. You see, in general, a lady only takes off her hat in her own home.

"Would you like some tea?" Holmes managed to croak. He had never felt so out of his depth, so inadequate.

Mary managed a half-smile, trying deliberately to ignore the tension in the room. "Please," she said simply.

Watson had a look on his face reminiscent of a kicked puppy. He had never, in his whole life, felt so inadequate. Holmes was obviously not going to use it against him, but still! Having to ask your best friend to….

Watson gulped his tea. And then, what afterwards? he thought. Could Holmes actually show them both physical affection? Watson had never understood why Holmes had not taken a wife before this. He was famous, handsome, and reasonably well-off financially. No matter how many times Holmes mentioned his distrust of women, Watson had always thought he would find one that was trustworthy. Eventually.

Mary gave the outward appearance of solemnness, but not to Holmes' well-trained eye. It actually calmed him considerable to turn his powers of observation on full-blast, noting Mary's slightly clenched jawline, her very precise movements, her dilated pupils and somewhat shallow breathing. He admired her control, yet at the same time appreciated that she was not taking this lightly.

Watson finished his tea, and pushed back his chair. He sighed deeply. "I know this is going to awkward for all of us, so there doesn't seem to be any reason for me to put it off." He patted Mary's hand, and looked at Holmes. "I love you both," he said simply, and walked out the door.

Mary Watson nee Morstan and Sherlock Holmes were alone for the first time. They looked at each other from across the table for several moments.

Holmes finally broke the silence. "I thought we might…take in a concert." He gulped nervously at Mary's calm stare. "It might…help…." he trailed off.

"Damn it!" Holmes swore explosively, and stood up from his chair. "This is impossible! How are we too…" he gestured vaguely towards his bedroom, "if I can't even find the words to talk about it?" He turned away, disgusted.

Mary sighed, a sign of relief. This was better, if only because it was really _him, _Sherlock Holmes, speaking of his heart, and not as if this was another case. "I do not know how we _should_ proceed, if there are any such rules," she said softly. "But a concert sounds lovely." Holmes looked over at her, and saw something in her eye that soothed him. Perhaps music _was_ a good place to start….

The London symphony was playing Vivaldi that evening. It was a rich, haunting performance, but Holmes could not concentrate on the music. No, his mind was entirely distracted by the fact that he was in the company of a woman expecting…what? And how was he going to tell her that it might not be possible?

He knew the score perfectly. The second act started slowly, but Holmes knew the volume would build. It was now or never.

Mary started when she heard his first words, just above the music, and knew instantly the words were meant only for her, even if they were in a private box. She listened intently, starting out to the orchestra, knowing somehow she should not look at him.

"I do not remember ever not being close to my mother," the words flowed to her, "though she died when I was 9. She was very demanding of both Mycroft and myself, though I do not know if she ever required Mycroft –"

Sherlock's words stopped as the music slowed. But somehow, with a horrible dread, Mary knew what was coming next.

The finale built to an almost painful crescendo. And his last words spilt into her heart –"to make love to her." Tears fell down her cheeks as she clapped at the end.

Holmes stood and held out his hand gallantly, as if he had not just told a near stranger his most dark secret. They walked silently out to the street, waiting for a cab. Holmes turned to her, his gaze almost unreadable. "Watson does not know," he said simply. He helped her into the cab, and they both said nothing the entire drive to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary entered the main quarters slowly the next morning. She felt light headed. What was she supposed to do with the intimate knowledge Sherlock Homes had given her? Was it even fair to ask him to do what she had come for? And, truthfully, what _had _she expected of this time? Did she really need to be made love to by anyone besides her husband?

Holmes was reading, but instantly laid the book aside as she entered, and stood up. He was still quite nervous, but less so now, having voiced his darkest secret. He had managed to create a simple breakfast, which he had on the table. A smile came to Mary's eyes, knowing the trouble Holmes had gone through.

"Good morning," Mary said quietly. Had she imagined the feeling when he had taken her hand last night?

"I did not know what you might like," he said, pulling her seat back for her.

"Thank you. This looks lovely."

He almost felt sick with nervousness, now. "I thought I might explain…."

"Only if you want to, Sherlock," she said softly.

Those nerves forced him from his chair and to the mantle. He felt out-of-his-skin, not in control. "I…" he began. He found himself breathing hard, working to broach a subject he had never spoken with anyone before.

"You may find strange that I…lack the, ahem, experience….usually associated with someone of my age." His eyes bored into hers, and _willed_ her to understand.

She approached him slowly. If one could drown looking into the soul of another, she would be doing so now. Putting all the small pieces together that she was sure even John had never guessed or even dreamed of, she _knew_. Sherlock Holmes was a virgin! She did not count his mother. That was an aberration, not what God intended.

She put her hand up to his face, and watched his eyes flutter close. She breathed in and out, looking for the right words. "Then it is as it was meant to be. John and I are for you, and you are for us. I do not know why it is so, but I believe it now. God meant this to _be."_

He felt her hand on his face. He had never allowed a woman this close. He could think no more. His mind frozen, his body took over.

He felt himself bending down smelled her hair, her cheek soft against his. He felt her body tense, unsure. This was different than the vivid, tortured memories of his mother so many years ago. She had _used_ him. Mary had needs, but she was just as scared as he was.


End file.
